I’m just saying , you might get sick of the waiting ’round. The waiting for buses and girls but one’s late and one’s not coming at all and I don’t know which is which anymore.
I’m just saying it’s plans not TVs out the window now and you might get sick of waiting for the lights to change, but in the meantime it’s all still Night Life, Track Four, Red Arse, old runners, Casual Certs, X-Box heroics, double yellows, Luas tickets for roaches, black pudding, shit gigs, change pints, hand balls, bookies pens and I can’t afford the banter anymore.
I’m trying to keep the faith and I still believe in Bewley’s and Elvis but you might get sick of waiting for days when you’re not always looking over your shoulder. But the streets ruined on me now and I can’t walk down them without thinking about it.
I’m just saying you might get sick of the wet weeks, the wet socks, the wet jeans,wet funerals, the wet streets and it’s all getting a little harder to justify, and it’s too late to be screaming We Are Your Friends at heads you don’t know in a gaff you’ve never been before and you’ll never will be again, as London and Sydney swallow your mates; Any craic? No, youse all fucked off.
But there’s always reasons for optimism. MacGowan and McGrath still walk this earth but we can’t be far off now, and I’m still waiting for that perfect summer’s forever day of long shadows and lens flares but you get one weekend in May and you go apeshit and get lobster burnt to fuck and that’s all you get but they don’t know it ’til August, but come next May you’ll still be first in line on Portmarnock Strand in your togs and goosebumps, grinning like a fucking lunatic.
I keep thinking can we have a bit of restraint, but I’m one to talk. Someone once told me the third secret of Fatima but I was pissed and I forgot it – fuck it. I’ll probably never see the Winter Solstice at Newgrange, but as long as you can Like This we’re all grand and we’re all connected.
I’m just saying you can fill every night talking about the one before. Magnificent bastards and the lost city of Dutch Gold. Empty taxi, danger taxi, racist taxi. Crouching tiger, hidden naggin. Smoking sections, 90s babies, Zaytoon or M.T. Pockets, the fear, the St. Christopher texts, the flood of tea and excuses and I’m just drowning in all the charm and bollix. Youse missed out. We’ve the same photos as everyone else to prove it.
I’m just saying sometimes we’re too tough on ourselves and most of the time we’re never tough enough. And the girls that are left here aren’t that bad. They just need to not be so easily convinced. You’ll never fool anyone that you’re from the Beach Cities and you don’t need to.
But we’re at our holiest when it’s the last song and we’re soaked in pub juice and desperate. When the boy’s choir tells us to look each day and night in the eye, before the gorgeous giddy promise of a Friday’s turned to scabbed smokes and kebab wrappers.
I’m just saying, The Specials were bang on about everything but the clubs closing down. And the answers aren’t on Camdem Street and they never were, or in the middle of the crowd, out of your snack box, and I’m still trying to find the glow.
And the craic is dead but the wheel’s keeps turning, and the days take months but the year flies, and then it’s lads on boats home with Christmas crawls and shoggy resolutions.
I’m just saying, you might get sick of it all. But you might miss it too and there’s ten good reasons to go but a thousand tiny ones not to and I don’t know which is which anymore.